


Dr. Badass Gets Laid

by lunabee34 (Lorraine)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Humor, M/M, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:17:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1376983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorraine/pseuds/lunabee34
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am uploading this fic for the sake of completeness.  Apologies, y'all.  *runs and hides*</p><p>[Even the Great Summary Rewrite Project of 2017 can't improve this one.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dr. Badass Gets Laid

**Once upon a time, two men fell in love. Against all odds and despite many obstacles, their love grew until its fire could not be contained. And thus began an epic romance, a grand adventure that culminated in eternal happiness. Or four days of uncontrollable and slightly shameful fucking. Same diff.**

“Ash, god. Baby, please.” Dean moaned, a low hitching whine that echoed the _wah wah wah wah_ guitar bridge of “Show me the Way.” “Give it to me slower. Make it last.”

Ash made a valiant effort, truly he did, but his hips felt spring loaded, revved up like a deuce, his metal to Dean’s pedal and “don’t let the city limits sign hit your ass on the way out of town.” This metaphor confused Ash, but slowed him down enough to peg Dean’s prostate instead of just banging away at his spleen like he had been. Dean screamed underneath him, and Ash would’ve felt vaguely alarmed at the way he shredded the pillow with his teeth, except that Ash was sorta busy shooting a load himself. Dean turned, a single feather fixed to his wet, swollen mouth and whispered, “Love you.”

**But really, I’m getting ahead of myself.**

**Once upon a time, two men fell in love. One had journeyed far, and battle weighed heavily on his countenance…..**

“What the hell happened to you boys? Tell me that’s not your blood!” Ellen nearly leapt across the bar, a hand on her mouth to physically restrain all the things she wanted to say but knew she could not, namely: _My babies! Come here and let mama fix it better. I’ll get a stir fry on; you boys don’t eat enough vegetables, and scurvy’s not pretty. Nearly took all Gordon’s teeth in ’92. Let mama hold you, Sammy, and brush that butt-cut right out of your hair, sugar. Even though your daddy killed my Bill and I hate you for it and if I ever find you balls deep in my daughter, Dean Winchester, I’ll Bobbit you up myself before you can even shake free—I still wanna take care of you. My babies!_

“It’s not.” Sam shimmied out of his gore smeared jacket like the evil Go-Go dancer he was Destined to be. Sam knew all about the Yellow-Eyed-Son-of-a-Bitch’s (YESOB) plans for him. You don’t just sport an inner girl for a week without figuring a few things out. Or hearing them in skull-splitting surround sound over a demon’s maniacal laugh track. Whatever. Naturally Sam was devastated at first; he wore the caved in forehead of emo despair for days after. But time heals all wounds, and Sam figures evil to a Go-Go dancer is more along the lines of greasing up your rival’s thong with a jabanero than frying somebody’s insides like hamburger. Plus he’s always been fond of sequins. Sam wishes he’d known about his Destiny back when they were captured by Pappy McLongPorkLover and his snaggle-headed girl spawn. Coulda put that cage time to good use practicing. But bygones. “I think we just killed an exploding jelly-filled donut in your parking lot.”

“What?” Jo walked out of the storeroom carrying a box of assorted liquor and began restocking the bar. “Hey, Dean.” She crossed her arms under her boobs and lifted up in the vain hope of creating cleavage. “And hey, um . . . you. Dean’s brother.” 

“We just wasted a great, big Krispy Kreme on legs,” Sam said.

“We? You screamed like a girl while I stabbed it twenty times with my 12-inch ankle knife, which in no way compensates for any deficiency anywhere else, so don’t even say it, Sam.” Dean made a terrible face, like a cat licking peanut butter from the roof of its mouth. “I think I swallowed some. Son of a bitch!”

Jo quietly poured herself a shot of bourbon and slammed it home.

“You got some in your mouth? Dude, that’s super gross.”

“Eh.” Dean shrugged. “It’s not so bad. Kinda tastes like raspberry.”

“You look like you need a beer, man.” Ash slid him a frosty PBR and Dean drank most of it down in one gulp. 

Dean’s eyes glazed over momentarily, and then his gaze focused, razor sharp and deliberate, on Ash. “Ash is really smart.” Dean took another swig of his beer—the throat baring, jaw working, thumb across the lower lip on the frothy release kinda swig. “Much smarter than you, Sammy.”

**. . . The other had languished long in the castle’s saloon, rarely mingling with outsiders, and never knowing the true taste of love.**

Dean swaggered over to Ash and straddled the barstool next to him. He resisted the urge to thread his fingers through that glorious mullet—all business up front; all party in the back, indeed—and settled for brushing his thigh against Ash’s instead. The press of his leg to Ash’s seemed at first accidental, just the happenstance bumping of a knee or an ankle, but when the friction of their jeans rubbing together threatened to ignite a small fire, Ash looked up from his laptop in alarm.

“Hey, man. What gives? Kinda chafing me here.” 

Dean smiled at him, a blinding flash of white teeth that burned afterimages on Ash’s retinas. “Is that a proposition?” Ash squeaked and scooted his barstool farther away from Dean’s.

At this, Sam looked up from the fruit plate Ellen had served him and gasped. “Dean? Are you perving on Ash?” 

“I am not perving on the man, Sam. I just think Ash and I should get to know each other better. Much better.”

Sam grabbed Dean’s face between his gargantuan, meaty paws and tipped his brother’s head back, peering intently into his eyes. “Your pupils are dilated. Ingesting that Donut Demon must’ve done something to you. I bet it’s a lust curse. You jonesing after Ash? That’s madness! Madness I say! I mean, it’s not like you’re even gay. Well, there was that one time you sucked me off on the hood of the Impala, but that was just Winchester PTSD Code for _We were raised like emotionally stunted warriors by an ex-Marine with a god complex who made me promise to kill you and I almost had to and now I’m on emotional overload_.” Sam did not mention the number of times he had relived that moment or how often he had faked a vision just to feel those steely arms around him again; Dean’s ego was massive enough already.

“I’ll just be in the Fortress of Solitude if anybody needs me.” Ash backed slowly out of the bar, turning and hightailing back to his room when he hit the pool tables.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean said.

Jo poured another shot, tequila this time, and drank it down daintily.

“Look what you did, Sam. You are such a frigging cockblocker.” Dean stomped over to the jukebox and fed it quarters, laying his cheek on the glass forlornly as “I Touch Myself” began to play.

“Ellen, I’ve got to find out what’s going on here. Find some way to cure Dean. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Keep him away from Ash.” Sam flared his nostrils and exhaled heavily, a tactic he felt imbued a certain gravity to any of his statements.

“Sure thing, sweetie.” Privately Ellen thought there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to stop that boy if he was hellbent on putting it to Ash and, frankly, the situation’s blackmail potential was awe inspiring.

**Though their brothers-in-arms tried to keep the two men apart, their passion knew no restraint.**

“Sam Winchester, where have you been? I’ve been worried sick about you,” Ellen said.

“I tracked down the demon. Dean _is_ under a lust curse. Once a human ingests the Donut demon’s blood, its lust inducing qualities are activated by another person’s saliva. Fortunately, the curse only lasts for four days.”

“I don’t get it,” Jo said. “He and Ash didn’t swap spit.”

“Oh, but they did. Ash must’ve skimmed off the top before he tossed Dean that beer.” Sam surveyed the bar. “Where is Dean?”

“You’re not gonna like it, sweetie. We chained him up like you said, but there’s not a lock made that can hold a Winchester and you know it.”

“Son of a bitch.”

Jo shotgunned a beer, drenching her white shirt in the process and revealing the delicate lines of her training bra.

**Alas, all things magic must end, dissolving at the inevitable stroke of midnight when the mirror shatters and the candle snuffs . . .**

Ash woke slowly, snuggling into the warmth radiated by the body of his lover. He rolled over, “Morning, DeanMachine,” dying in his throat as he saw the expression on Dean’s face. “I guess you’re back to yourself.” 

Dean scrambled out of bed, pulling on his clothes and gathering up the weapons he’d strewn across the room. He didn’t look at Ash, not even once, and Ash’s belly ached with abject misery. 

“You did, you know,” Ash whispered.

“Did what?”

“Make it good, I mean. Like you promised.” Ash stood awkwardly in the corner, holding the sheet around his waist and staring at the floor.

Dean closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, hard. “Ash, this did not happen. We are never talking about this again. Ever.” Dean turned up the collar of his jacket, jaw clenched like the worst case of TMJ Ash had ever seen. “Sorry about your pillow.” He left without a backward glance, and Ash watched from the window as Dean gunned the Impala off into the sunset. 

**. . . but if the two men dreamed oft of one another, woke gasping and sweat-drenched with their hands around their cocks, or even made plans to rendezvous in that cornfield out behind the Roadhouse every two months, to lay flesh against flesh in the tilled earth, only their own hearts were the wiser.**


End file.
